Page 2 of Bagging the Blueliner
Stunned, I asked, “Excuse me?”
“You heard me, Berg. You’re a blueliner. Your job is defense. Thinking you can go end to end is the kind of crap you see from nine-year-olds in house hockey. It has no place in the professional game. Hanging your forwards out to dry when you try to take all the glory won’t fly here. Hockey is a team game.”
Hold up a minute. She was pissed about how I played the game?
Now, I was offended. I knew this game inside and out, and my style of play was what got me here. Who was she to tell me it was wrong?
Draining my drink, I noted how flushed her cheeks were in her anger. She was pissing me off, but I still thought she was hot. I wouldn’t say no if she wanted to bring that anger to the bedroom.
Shaking off that thought, I decided it was time to defend myself and my game. “I put up thirty goals last season from defense, and you’re telling me I’m playing the game wrong?”
“Typical,” she muttered.
“What was that?” I was provoking her, I knew that.
There was something intriguing about her. I couldn’t put my finger on it, but she seemed to know more about the game than most women I’d met. She hadn’t been afraid to speak her mind thus far, and I wanted to hear what she had to say.
“You’re a hotshot who thinks the only stat that matters is how many goals are next to his name on the scoresheet.”
“Can’t win the game without scoring goals,” I countered.
She didn’t back down. “That’s not what you’re paid to do. Your job is making sure no one gets close enough to our goaltender to put the puck in the back of our net. Your plus-minus is shit. You’re so focused on scoring goals from defense that when you don’t, it comes the other way on an odd-man rush, and we end up in a hole. Get your shit straight or you won’t be here long.”
With that, she turned on her heel and headed toward one of the many open-sided tents.
I was left speechless. Most women only cared that I played the sport. Very few of them understood how the game worked, and they sure as hell didn’t have an intimate knowledge of my stats.
Plus-minus was related to the number of goals scored for or against your team when you were on the ice. You got a plus one every time you were out there for one of your team’s goals and a minus one for every goal against your team. A positive rating meant you were helping to create offensive chances for your team while minimizing scoring chances against them. A negative rating meant you were out there for a lot of fuck-ups and not enough scoring to even it out.
I wanted to be angry at her tirade, but she was right. My plus-minus was shit. I was out there for a lot of goals for my team but also a lot against them.
“I see you’ve met Hannah.” A voice came from my right.
Looking over, I saw that the very young face of the Comets franchise had joined me.
Jaxon Slate had made waves coming into his draft year, with everyone expecting him to turn the team around with his talent. Barely twenty, he was now going into his third season, whereas I was getting my first opportunity at twenty-four.
When the Comets drafted him, I’d been excited about the prospect of someday getting to play with him. He was a skilled player who saw the ice in a unique way.
Hoping that the second time was the charm, I reached my hand out. “Jaxon, right?”
Clasping my hand firmly with his and shaking, he nodded. “Nice to meet you. Hopefully, Hannah hasn’t scared you into running back to Providence.”
My gaze returned to the tent where the brunette had fled after her verbal assault. “I won’t lie to you, man. I’m really confused. She came out of nowhere and gave her unsolicited opinion on how my gameplay will cost the team.”
Jaxon chuckled. “Yeah, she’s really invested in the team.”
“Who is she? For a hot second, I thought she was a pissed-off puck bunny I’d forgotten about.”
He made a choking sound. “You better pray that’s not true.”
“Shit. Is she underage?”
“No, it’s not that. She’s Coach’s youngest daughter. You haven’t gotten the first-day speech yet, but the Moreau girls are off-limits to all Comets players.”
Thatwas how she knew the game so well, including my stats. Hannah was feisty, sexy, and clearly knew her way around a hockey rink, but everyone knew you didn’t risk your livelihood over a girl. It was an unspoken rule—you didn’t mess with your coach’s daughter. Knowing Coach Moreau himself made that crystal clear meant even more.
Translation: sleep with my daughter, and it’s game over. Literally.
